


Late-Night Drunken Nonsense (On the Feelings of Pigeons)

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Jackson Runs His Mouth, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Reid Does Not Care About Pigeons, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: A drunk Jackson has a (not) very serious question and sneaks into Reid's room in the middle of the night for answers.Inspired by "Iloveallofyounerds" and her Incorrect Ripper Street posts, and general encouragement. You're awesome and lovely.





	Late-Night Drunken Nonsense (On the Feelings of Pigeons)

“Reid. Hey, _Reid_.”

Half-asleep, Edmund rolled toward the hushed voice, his eyes still closed. “Mm?”

“D’you reckon—hey—”

A hand curled around his shoulder and shook him into consciousness. He blinked in the darkness and turned his head to find Jackson. Beside his bed. Jackson swayed like a stalk of wheat.

“D’you reckon pigeons have _feel_ ings?”

Irritation prickled as it rose up Edmund’s throat and thrust him into wakefulness, more and more with each second. “Jackson,” he whispered, deathly calm.

“Hmm? Yeah?” Jackson nearly fell over when he knelt beside the bed. “What d’you think? I think, maybe, yes. Why else would those winged rats _coo_ so much, you know? There has to be a—a _reas_ on, ‘cause _that_ would be a _point_ less evut—uh—evoltion—evo _lut_ ionary—that’s it—”

As Jackson ranted, Edmund pressed his face into his pillow, then raised his head to interrupt. “Jackson, it is the _middle of the night_ . What in the _hell_ are you doing in my _room_?”

Jackson snapped his mouth shut and straightened up. “I, uh…”

“It could not _poss_ ibly be to discuss the great _myst_ eries of _pig_ eons, full of _wonder_ though they are.”

“Not like you to shirk from a, uh, scientific enquiry, Reid.”

“No. _No._ It is _not_ that. So, tell me, for _why_ are you here?” Edmund asked, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Edmund recognized Jackson’s state. He smelled Jackson’s whiskey breath. But he wanted to determine just _how_ drunk the Captain was, and possibly extract any hidden motives that lurked behind Jackson’s feeble attempts to explain his sudden appearance.

“Well,” Jackson drawled. “See, I’d already pondered the matter over m’self, but—”

“The matter of…?”

“The pigeons,” Jackson responded, as if he were the world’s most pitiable idiot.

Edmund let his head fall forward with an exasperated sigh. He propelled himself off the bed and wrapped a hand around Jackson’s arm. “Captain, I’m afraid I cannot assist you with this particular enquiry.” He pulled Jackson toward the door. “And you should—”

“Ooh, oo-oo-ooh,” Jackson sing-songed, a lopsided smile stretching across his face, visible in the dim moonlight. “You’re quite the man-handler when you’re pissy, you know that?”

Rolling his eyes, Edmund ignored the comment. “And _you_ should continue to ponder this _press_ ing matter in your own bed.”

“Nah,” Jackson replied, managing to grab the door first and slam it shut. “I’m-a ponder right here. Up to you if you want’a keep hold’a me while I do so.”

Edmund squinted at Jackson, trying with all his willpower to resist Jackson’s bait. He drew a deep, slow breath and released Jackson’s arm with a shove that made Jackson twist away from him. “Jackson, you may put your ridiculous questions to me in the morning, if you remember them,” he sniped. “Now is not the time for this.”

“I think now is the _per_ fect time for this.” And, with a move faster than Edmund believed Jackson capable, Jackson curled a hand around the back of his neck, pulled him close, and kissed him.

And, despite Jackson’s state, Edmund let him. He let Jackson tilt his head and part his lips. Let Jackson push his whiskey-coated tongue into his mouth. Let Jackson draw a strangled _moan_ from the back of his throat.

With clumsy steps, Jackson pushed him back to the bed, hands spread flat and wide on his chest. Jackson fell on top of him, and Edmund raised his chin to provide access to his throat. Jackson sucked _hard,_ lips sealed to skin, pulling Edmund up and into an arch beneath him.

When Jackson reached down and stroked him through his underclothes, he took hold of Jackson’s wrist and stopped him. “Not now,” he panted, finding Jackson’s eyes. “Not—” He wanted to say _like this_ , _not when you’re this drunk,_ but he swallowed the words. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah? And I’m drunk. What of it, Reid?” Jackson tried to dip his hand under the waistband of his underclothes, and Edmund had to squirm aside, away from Jackson’s hand.

Every part of him wanted to push and lean into Jackson’s touch, wanted to feel Jackson’s hand wrap around his cock and pump him to a shaky, breathless climax. But every part of him also wanted Jackson to remember it. So he turned onto his side and said, “I won’t have you losing consciousness before we’re finished, so it’s best we not start. Now turn around.”

With a scowl, Jackson flipped onto his side, his back to Edmund. He closed in, holding Jackson from behind, and dropped kisses on Jackson's shoulder until he slumped deeper into the mattress.

For a while, Jackson laid so still that Edmund believed him asleep.

But, after a silent minute, Jackson’s thick voice streamed into his ears. “So, Reid. About them pigeons.”

“Quiet,” Edmund whispered, his lips at the nape of Jackson’s neck. Edmund grinned when Jackson pressed backwards to fit snugly into his sleepy embrace.

“Yeah, fine.”


End file.
